From the Fifth Avenue entrance, the grand dames themselves arrive to cruise the richly carpeted interior boulevards of the store. These are not the wily shoppers come to wrangle tooth and nail over bargains in Klein’s on Union Square. These are the ladies who have come to rack up towering charges to their accounts at the gleaming glass carousels of first floor fine jewelry and the perfume counters under the luminosity of ornamental chandeliers. These are the ladies who have come to lunch on watercress sandwiches in the Caffe Orsini, second floor, sip coffee from Italian demi-cups as a pageant of shapely young models, their daughters’ age, parade the best-selling creations of the Bonwit label for their perusal, fourth floor collections. These are the ladies who have come to consider their reflections in queenly mirrors, swathed in mink stoles and sable coats, second floor, West 57th Street wing.
On the sales floor, Rachel is covering for Suzy Quinlan—seventh floor, Miss Bonwit Jr.: junior dresses, junior sportswear, junior coats and accessories. Normally, Rachel works a different department: La Boutique, third floor bed and bath shop. But today, since they are so shorthanded with Gladys Mulberry down with a cold and Nancy Kirk having quit after her engagement, the floor walker, Mr. Bishop, has assigned Rachel to cover the section while Suzy catches a quick bite down in the store commissary. Rachel is busy refolding a white knit cardigan embroidered with pink and red roses. Such a sweet little sweater for a damsel in first bloom. Assez jolie. She feels the first pinch of heartbreak at this point yet ignores it.
When a customer appears, trailing a light mist of Yardley, she quickly summons her smile. The lady is obviously a regular by her air of imperial familiarity. She asks for Suzy by name but must settle for Rachel. She’s a slim specimen creeping toward the autumn of her life, wearing an azure silk blazer with snow-white gloves. She’s looking for a little something as a gift. Just a little something for “my
Rachel maintains her smile for the lady as she has coached herself to do. Even if she’s not on commission like the full-time staff, she has learned to take satisfaction in the act of the transaction. Providing for customers’ desires permits her a feeling of utility that she seldom experiences otherwise. Certainly not when she opens her sketch pad or—it shouldn’t happen!—she is confronted by a blank canvas from the rack at Lee’s Art Shop.
So Rachel is happy to oblige, ready to suggest the freshly folded embroidered cardigan. An adorable choice, she calls it. Perfect for la jeune fille about to enter her première rougeur de féminité. The lady compliments her French. Votre français est très naturel, she tells Rachel. But the lady has a roving eye. Something else has caught her attention. “
Yes, Rachel nods. Très charmante, such a thing. A burgundy beret. Eine burgunderrote Baskenmütze. Such a darling little thing. So stylish. So Parisian. And so vulnerable, a girl at that age. So very vulnerable to the world. So easily victimized. So easily extinguished.
Rachel doesn’t really remember what happens beyond that moment, once the Episode begins. The darkness floods her consciousness and scalds her heart. And then she sees the face. The innocent caramel-brown eyes. The brunette braid and the burgundy beret. For so many years, she has kept the memory of this face submerged. Suppressed. Locked in an iron vault. Yet suddenly the past confronts her on the seventh floor of Bonwit Teller. The schoolgirl is there before her, conjured from the past, her velvety eyes staring out from death. Rachel feels the world turn on its ear. She hears the sound of shattering glass. Hears a scream that might be her own or might not be. Hears the lady shouting frantically. There’s blood splattering and a trembling pain shooting through her hand. That’s the last thing she remembers.
“Do you love your husbands, ladies?” This is the question posed by a sweetly smug voice on the radio. “If you do, then you should serve him only the finest of instant coffees, Imperial Blend. It’s freeze-dried for a richer coffee taste!”